


Where Feet May Fail

by caspeter



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Referenced suicide, STAN IS SO SOFT FOR BILL, Setup Gone Wrong, background reddie, bokor!pennywise, but not really it’s a dream but still suicide tw, goes from 0-100 real quick, homophobia tw, the losers all ship stenbrough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-09 00:32:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12265245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caspeter/pseuds/caspeter
Summary: There were a lot of things Stan wanted to do with Bill, but sitting in front of a supposed bokor with a ridiculous name in a building that by all logic should not exist was not one of them.But, Stan would follow Bill to the ends of the earth, and unfortunately, that included being willing to sit in the chair to Bill’s left in front of a man who gave him what Richie, were he there, would describe as ‘the fuckin’ heebie jeebies’.





	1. and fear surrounds me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havishxm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havishxm/gifts).



> This gets kind of dark, but all in all it’s not too bad.  
> Happy endings guaranteed, I promise!

It was fucking _cold_. Somehow, Derry seemed to reach colder temperatures than the rest of the blasted country when winter struck, and yet, there Stan was, stood outside the cinema at six o’clock in the middle of December, waiting for his friends who were supposed to have shown up a half hour ago to grab something to eat before whatever cheesy Christmas movie Richie had picked out (and dear God, why had they let him pick the movie? It always ended up being something ridiculous).  
When the clock ticked over to six fifteen (why had he not thought to bring a thicker coat? Oh, right, because Stan hadn’t thought his friends would leave him outside in the freezing snow for forty-five fucking minutes.) he was fully considering just turning around and heading on home, maybe he could grab himself a copy of It’s A Wonderful Life from the old DVD rental store on his way home.  
Just as he was about to head home, he was stopped by the sight of Bill, headed toward him, waving with a somewhat apologetic smile on his face.  
“S-s-sorry I’m l-late. G-Georgie lost his p-p-paper b-boat.” And God, all the anger inside Stan melted at those words. Bill was so loyal, loved his little brother so much, didn’t think of the Georgie as an annoyance, not like most older brothers thought of their younger siblings.  
Stan could never really find it in him to actually be mad at him.  
“ ‘S fine. Did you find it?”  
Bill chuckled, “N-n-no, we had t-t-to make a n-n-new one.” Stan wasn’t sure if it was that Bill was nervous, or if the cold weather was simply making his teeth chatter, but Bill’s stutter seemed to be worse than usual. It was actually somewhat endearing.  
  
A brief moment of silence fell over the two, neither boy seeming to know what t say, before Bill piped up again – saving Stan from having to come up with anything on the spot.  
“W-where is e-ev-everyone?”  
Just like that, Stan remembered why he’d been in such a sour mood just a few minutes ago, and he crossed his arms over his chest defensively.  
“No clue. I’ve texted a hundred times.”  
As he spoke, he unfurled his arms, reaching into his pockets to pull out his phone and pulling off his gloves momentarily so as to be able to use it.  
Just as he’d expected – a grand total of zero messages.  
He sighed, shooting off one last text to the Losers Club™ group chat, expecting nothing in return.  
Stan: billy’s here too pls where the fuck are you guys its COLD  
Almost immediately, his phone was buzzing incessantly with messages from everyone in the chat, almost as though they had been waiting for him to send that text.  
  
Eddie: Mom is insisting Im sick again sorry :(  
Eddie: She says I’ll get a pneumonia  
Stan: im pretty sure ive already got one waiting for your sorry asses but okay  
Bev: i’ve abducted ben to help with a last minute history class project, sorry!  
Mike: sheep emergency, won’t be able to make it  
Richie: eds is out and so am i im headed to his house with soup as we text  
Eddie: oh God please no  
Richie: yes yes yes im on my way to be ur knight in shining armour and ur gonna like it  
Richie: hang on  
Richie: haaaaaaang on  
Richie: fucking rewind  
Richie: SHEEP EMERGENCY I HFJKSFBHDHFHJHHH

Stan rolled his eyes, turning off his phone and sticking it back in his pocket before hurrying to pull his gloves back on, ignoring the phone’s incessant buzzing as his friends no doubt made fun of Mike for his odd explanation.  
“Everyone else is busy. Apparently.” Stan wasn’t an idiot, he knew there was no way everyone had suddenly become unable to make it, but at the end of the day, it gave him a chance to be alone with Bill, something he didn’t really get all that often, so he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.  
Stan’s crush on his friend had been present since he was twelve years old, just realising his sexuality and coming to terms with the way his stomach fluttered when Bill would touch him in any way.  
He’d known right off the bat he had no hope, but it’d taken him until he was fourteen to really accept the fact that nothing would ever happen between them.

“S-s-so it’s j-just you and m-m-me, huh? Well w-we should go g-g-get our t-tickets. It’s t-too cold out h-h-here.”  
Bill smiled over at him innocently, while rubbing his gloved hands together in a desperate attempt for some warmth. He looked far cuter than Stan was willing to admit, all bundled up in jackets and a scarf so large it was all but drowning him – and all Stan could think was that he was completely and utterly fucked.  
  
Stan nodded silently, turning away from Bill to head inside – he may have enjoyed drinking in the other boy’s appearance, but he also appreciated not freezing to death, and in that moment, the need to get toward some kind of warmth to avoid losing a finger to frostbite was really far greater than the need to stare at Bill like a lovestruck teenage girl in some cheesy rom-com Ben would drag them all to on Valentine’s day.  
  
Neither of them had actually had any clue what it was Richie had intended to drag them all to, the trashmouth had pretty much just insisted that he’d pick the movie (because “Eds made us all sit through that snoozefest last time -”  
“Psycho is a masterpiece, Richie, and for the last time, don’t call me Eds!”) and nobody had really wanted to get into it with him, so they just seemed to go along with it.  
So, he and Bill settled on a reshowing of Miracle on 34th Street that had started five minutes ago, rushing through the candy bar to grab some popcorn, and then into the cinema, only just making it in as the previews ended.  
As the movie started, Stan allowed himself to relax, he was pretty much on a movie date (and yeah, it may not have been a real date, but for the next hour and a half he could pretend) with Bill Denbrough.  
He internally thanked his lucky stars that his friends had all magically been occupied, not that he didn’t enjoy spending time with his other friends, but Bill was usually in pretty high demand. But he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was up, and the more he thought about it, the more the whole damn thing felt suspicious. Everyone had been all too compliant when Richie had just upped and decided he’d make all the plans for the evening, and when the fuck ever had that happened before? Richie, outspoken as he was, almost never went unchallenged, and Stan was pretty sure the others would sooner take a knife to the stomach from Henry Bowers himself than let Richie of all people make their Christmas plans.  
Then there was the fact that neither he nor Bill (nor the others, Stan was willing to bet) had even been told what they were seeing. It hadn’t seemed too weird at the time, when Richie had anounced, with a wiggle of his eyebrows that the movie was a secret, he’d brushed it off as just Richie being weird, but now it felt as though maybe he’d had no intentions of showing up in the first place and just hadn’t thought that far ahead.  
  
But why? Why would everyone just suddenly cancel? Why would Richie set it up so that he’d have to stand outside in the cold only to be ditched by five of his friends? The answer was nagging at him, but he couldn’t quite pull it. Maybe he just didn’t want to.  
All thoughts of trying to figure out what exactly was going on were chased from his mind completely, however, when Bill leaned over, and God, Stan could feel his breath on his ear, feel the warmth radiating off of him, and yeah, okay, this was it, Stan was sure he was going to fucking die. He was going to die, and Richie was going to claim his comic book collection, and get grot and filth all over it, and everyone in Derry would remember him as the Gay Jewish Kid™ who died in the middle of December in a Christmas movie from a build up of gayness.  
  
“Y-y-you okay?”  
It was with those words that Stan suddenly snapped back into reality, suddenly realising he’d ben completely spaced out for probably twenty minutes, having paid absolutely no attention to the movie.  
He spoke back in a hushed whisper, trying not to disturb the rest of the people in the cinema. “Yeah, sorry, I just –“  
Before he could finish reassuring Bill he was fine, the elderly man behind them quieted them with a (rather harsh and aggressive) shhhhh.  
Stan moved his attention back to the screen, trying his best to follow what was going on, and only a few minutes later, just when he’d gotten ahold of the plot, he was distracted once more by the feeling of something warm and heavy draped around his shoulders.  
Bill’s arm.  
Holy fuck.  
Nevermind, he’d been wrong before, this was it.  
(Later, when his father asked him how he liked Miracle on 34th Street, he would try his best to remember what he thought of the movie, but all he would be able to pull to mind was Bill’s arm around him, and the feeling it brought forth, of his heart racing faster than any human organ should be allowed to function without causing some sort of stroke.)  
  
It had only been quarter to nine when the movie let out, and since neither of them had an early curfew, they decided to walk around to find something for a late night dinner – both of them having missed out on eating anything at all when the others had stood them up.  
  
Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t much available in Derry in the coldest month of the year, so the two of them ended up caving and buying hot dogs from a man selling in the middle of the street.  
“Not to sound like Eddie, but does he have a death wish? Selling food in the middle of the street in December? He’s going to get frostbite.” Stan stated, as the two walked idly down the street, eating their makeshift dinner unceremoniously.  
“S-s-sh-shut up and eat y-your d-dinner.” Bill spoke, his voice laced with a teasing tone, there was no real bite to it.  
They walked in comfortable silence for a few more minutes – something Stan was always grateful for when he was able to get Bill alone. When they were with the others there was always chatter (not to point fingers, but Richie didn’t seem to have an off switch) and noise – silence was never allowed to fall amongst the group.  
But with Bill, it was easy to slip into silence, without the awkwardness that usually accompanied gaps in people’s conversations.  
  
The tranquility was short lived, however, as Bill slowed to a stop and tapped on Stan’s shoulder.  
“H-hey, Stan?”  
Bill sounded confused, and Stanley’s mind immediately filled with thoughts of oh, God, he knows. It was entirely irrational, there was no way in hell Bill knew about his one-sided crush – the only person who had any idea (as far as he knew) was Ben, who’d caught on rather quickly after joining the group of friends in seventh grade, and had pretty much been sworn to secrecy – not that it was necessary, Ben was the kind of person you could tell anything to and he’d take it to the grave willingly unless given express permission to spill the beans. He was good like that, really.  
“Yeah?”  
“H-h-have you ever s-seen that b-before?”  
Stan’s head turned, and his line of vision followed where Bill was pointing, across the road, to a strange little building, lit with red LED lights brighter than any he’d ever seen before.  
Above the door, there was a large, neon sign, in the shape of the top of a circus tent, the red and white lights making the rest of the street look pitch black in comparison. Slap bang in the middle of said sign was the word PENNYWISE, printed in large block letters, in huge obnoxious neon red font just like the rest of the sign.  
They couldn’t look away.  
There was something about that small building that twisted Stan’s guts, made him feel so uneasy just about being there, but he couldn’t look away.  
He couldn’t explain it, but something about it was calling out to him, drawing him in.  
He wondered briefly if Bill was feeling the pull too, but the question was answered for him when he managed to tear his eyes away long enough to catch a glimpse of the awestruck and somewhat dazed look in his friend’s expression.  
“No. No I’ve never seen that before.” And that was just it – he’d never seen anything like it before.  
But he’d walked past this street a hundred times, so had Bill. They’d been by just the other day, for crying out loud, and they both knew very well that where the odd little bright building now stood, there was usually a dingy old laundromat that hadn’t been running for years.  
  
“Should we...” Stan gestured to the door, already knowing Bill’s answer.  
Bill nodded, looking both ways to make sure he wasn’t about to step into oncoming traffic, before moving to walk across the road.  
The logical part of Stan was screaming not to go in, because hello! That was not there yesterday, there’s no explanation of what it is on the door or on the sign, and that just doesn’t seem trustworthy.  
But, it felt almost as though he were in a trance (and, anyway, how bad could it really be if he had an excuse to spend more time with Bill?) and so his feet moved of their own accord across the street, following Bill to the door.  
They stood, frozen, in front of the wooden door, and only now that Stan was right in front of it did he notice the small, surprisingly dim circus lights lining the outside of the wooden door (isn’t that a fire hazard? Eddie’s voice piped up in the back of Stan’s head, which was promptly ignored).  
  
Bill was the one who swallowed his fear first, reaching out for the doorknob, and Stan’s heart lept into his throat. Why was he so anxious? They were entering a building. They entered tons of buildings every day, so why was this one twisting and turning all of his excitement about spending time with Bill into something dead?  
  
The inside of the building was nothing too special, it was smaller than it appeared from the outside, and the air felt... Not quite dangerous, but almost like they’d left the world they were just in. That was the closest Stan could think to describe it, the room was just a small rectangle, long to his left and right, but it didn’t reach very far back – or at least, not that Stan could see behind the beautiful and yet simultaneously eerie deep red curtain that stretched the length of the room, seemingly replacing the back wall.  
Right in front of that was a table, quite long, but not long enough to take up the hole room. A black tablecloth fitted perfectly over it, and there was one chair behind it, facing them, between the table and the curtain.  
On the other side – there were two chairs.  
That was it.  
In any other circumstance, both boys would’ve found the lack of anything highly anticlimactic, but something about the feel in the air told them not to judge whatever this was off the minimalist furniture.  
  
“W-w-what the f-f-uck?” Stan heard Bill mutter under his breath, and, yeah, he was inclined to agree.  
Before either of them could move to leave or properly inspect the table, a thin hand grabbed at the curtain, pulling it back just enough to slide out, and Stan’s first thought was wow, that guy is tall.  
There was nothing particularly remarkable about him, he was thin, dressed smartly in a suit, with short brown hair parted at the side.  
All in all, he was pretty much someone you’d expect to see on the street on the way to school or work. But the aura he gave off was something else entirely, something about his pale skin and crooked smirk and that burning stare made Stan want to squirm, and from the shaky breath Bill let out beside him it was a fair assumption that Stan wasn’t the only one affected.  
  
The man pulled back the chair next to him, sitting down in it, and gesturing at the ones opposite him, just a few steps away from where Stan and Bill stood at the door.  
All Stan could think was fuck no.  
It seemed Bill was having similar thoughts, as he didn’t make any move to sit down.  
Stan wasn’t the only one who noticed Bill’s hesitation, though, as the man spoke up, in a voice so alluring and sickly sweet it made Stan want to throw up.  
“Come on, have a seat. I promise I won’t bite.” There was nothing joking about his voice, though, it was all a purr, almost.  
Stan wanted to leave, and unlike before, when he’d been so drawn in by the almost magical feel of the building, he could find the will to leave – but not without Bill. He wouldn’t leave unless Bill did too.  
“Uh, Bill, maybe we should go. Sorry to bother you, we must’ve come in the wrong –“  
“You’re right where you need to be. And surely, you don’t want to leave without having a go!”  
His smile was crooked, and it twisted Stan’s insides into something dreadful.  
“W-w-wh-who are y-y-you?” Bill managed to stutter out, eyeing the strange man cautiously.  
The man’s smile brightened into a grin, eyes widening with glee. “I’m Pennywise! Pennywise the Bokor. For lack of a more... Suited word.”  
Pennywise said Pennywise the Bokor in such a gleeful way that one might use to say Pennywise the Dancing Clown, and Stan fought the urge to let out a nervous chuckle, because something about the man standing in front of him was far from funny.  
What the fuck else did his mother expect him to become, with a name like Pennywise? Stan snorted, yeah, that was definitely Richie’s voice poking its way through to his mind. He was glad Richie wasn’t here, he wouldn’t put it past him to insult Pennywise, and he just didn’t seem like the kind of person you wanted to piss off.  
“And you boys are Stanley Uris and Bill Denbrough – say, Billy, how is little Georgie?”  
Stan could feel Bill tense up beside him, and in a spur of the moment decision, reached out to grab his hand (it was so warm, and it made his heart beat even faster than it already was) to stop him from exploding.  
If there was one thing that would set Bill off like nothing else, it was the idea that his little brother might be in danger.

“Relax, Billy, I’m not a child murderer. I just ran into him a few days ago in that storm. I gave him his paper boat back. He was quite distraught, you know, thought you’d be so angry. You really shouldn’t let a little kid outside alone in the pouring rain. You never know what’s... Lurking out there.”  
  
Fuck, now Stan was curious. Who the fuck was this guy?  
But Bill was now apparently beyond curious, letting go of Stan’s hand and stepping forward decisively, pulling out the chair in front of him and sitting down opposite Pennywise, resting his arms on his table.  
There were a lot of things Stan wanted to do with Bill, but sitting in front of a supposed bokor with a ridiculous name in a building that by all logic should not exist was not one of them.  
But, Stan would follow Bill to the ends of the earth, and unfortunately, that included being willing to sit in the chair to Bill’s left in front of a man who gave him what Richie, were he there, would describe as the fuckin’ heebie jeebies.  
“Wh-wh-what do you w-w-want from us?” Bill’s tone held firm, and he sounded a hell of a lot more confident than Stan felt.  
“It’s alright, Billy, I’m not gonna hurt ya. I could, but I won’t. I just come around every few decades to show the people of Derry what they really are.”  
Alright, that was cheesy, and Stan allowed himself to snort in derision. (What? He was now eighty percent sure this guy wasn’t out to kill them and dump their bodies in the sewers or anything, so it was probably fine.)  
“So, what, it’s a penny for your wisdom or some crap?” He said, dryly. Stan wasn’t usually one for puns, that was more Richie’s area (although Richie’s puns were almost always filthy), but anything to lighten the mood would’ve done.  
He heard Bill chuckle beside him, and it made him feel warm, if only for a moment, to know that he could make Bill laugh.  
“There’s no fee. But I can’t guarantee you’ll like what you see.”  
The way he said it pronounced the words sounded almost like a song or a hypnotic rhyme, something straight out of a horror movie.  
I can’t guarantee you’ll like what you see.  
“What the fuck are you talking about?”  
Stan was honestly getting impatient - he was curious, but still impatient. The vague movie prophecy-esque bullshit wasn’t something he really felt like putting up with.  
He suddenly understood why heroes in novels were never thrilled when faced with fortune tellers or the like.  
“The only ones who ever find my little shop are the ones who need it. I can show you the answer to any soul searching question you like, but if you don’t want to know anything, I’ll just show you your deepest fear. That’s always fun, fear is… Great fun.” Pennywise actually giggled, and Stan found himself fighting the urge to throw up once more. It was a terrible sound, scratchy and high pitched and terrifying and all together fucking sickening. The laugh seemed to trigger something – Stan could almost feel water lapping at his ankles, smell something incredibly awful (like a sewer), and it all came in flashes, like memories – like experiences from another life.  
Maybe one where Pennywise was something more sinister.  
“You learn a lot from your deepest fears, you know. So what’ll it be? Any questions for your old pal Pennywise? Tick tock, tick tock, boys.”  
Something inside of Stan was tempted to ask if Bill would ever feel the same, but he wasn’t anywhere near daft enough to actually voice that question. Bill didn’t speak either, and the silence that fell over the room then was deafening.  
When a few more seconds (minutes? hours? Stan wasn’t sure. Time felt weird and skewed in this place) passed, but still neither boy said anything, Pennywise spoke up once more, voice filled with sick joy.  
“Fears it is. Excellent. Close your eyes, rest your hands facing palm up on the table.”  
Stan didn’t even want to comply, but it was like that trance from back when he’d first seen the house had fallen over him again, and he absentmindedly did as he was told, vaguely aware of Bill doing the same.

He felt something cold rest atop his right palm – Pennywise’s hand, and it sent shivers down his spine in the worst possible way.  
Then, in a flash, it was like everything fell away, and though he hadn’t been told, Stan somehow knew he should open his eyes.  
And what he saw wasn’t what he expected.  
He’d expected to see something like Bill getting married, with him being forced to watch from where he was stood as best man, unable to do anything.  
Not this. He was stood in the hallway, outside the kitchen door inside his own house.  
He could hear his mother yelling at his father, something about a fag, and what would everyone think?  
It sounded as though the argument had been going on for hours and hours, and his blood turned cold as he stepped closer to the kitchen, now able to make out the words.  
“He’s a fag, we can’t have one of those as a son. It’s a disgrace!”  
“Alright, Andrea, what do you want me to do? It’s not my fault he’s one of those fairies!”  
“He can’t stay here. I will not have one of those abominations in my house, Don!”  
“We don’t have to do that, we can send him to one of those programs, they can…”  
He’d heard enough, choosing to turn away. Stanley felt sick to his stomach, he’d avoided coming out to his family for so long because of his Jewish heritage – his parents had always gone on about how he should find himself a nice girl, but he’d been waiting until he knew how they felt about queer people before coming out to them.  
He just hadn’t realised how frightened he was of losing their support until now.  
He tiptoed down the hallway - where was he in this scenario?  
His bedroom was empty, his phone buzzing where it seemed to have been abandoned on his bed, an he made his way over to it, his heart leaping into his throat when he caught sight of who was sending the messages.  
Bill. (not Bill, he had to remind himself, dream Bill, your deepest fears Bill.)  
What he saw made everything else that day seem like child’s play.  
The anxieties he’d had when walking into that creepy ass motherfucker’s tent, the drop in his stomach when he’d heard his own parents calling him a fag, all of it was nothing.  
Because there, on the screen in front of him were dozens of messages from Bill expressing his horror, his genuine disgust at the thought of ever being with someone like Stan.  
Stan didn’t think he wanted to know where dream/vision-Stan was, now. With Bill hating him and his parents calling him a fag, disowning him, he didn’t want to know what he’d do.  
He found himself walking toward the bathroom anyway.  
The stench of blood as he approached the locked bathroom door told him all he needed to know.  
In this scenario, this dream, he’d been pushed too far.  
And fuck, the arguing was growing louder and louder and louder and louder and louder and LOUDER and the smell of blood became more intense and Stan swore he could feel the buzzing of his phone with notifications, and he didn’t want this anymore, he wanted to go back, back, fucking Pennywise, end this, please!  
And squeezing his eyes shut, Stan swore he could feel a dull pain in his wrists, which, after a moment of darkness, disappeared suddenly along with all the sounds of arguing and buzzing.  
When Stan opened his eyes once more, he was back, sat opposite Pennywise who was staring at him so intensely with those beady eyes and a crooked smile.  
Stan wanted to scream, wanted to curse, but Pennywise drew one slim finger to his lips, gesturing for him to be quiet, before pointing at Bill, eyes still shut, still stuck in whatever horrific dream the devil in disguise had trapped him in.

So Stan sat there, eyes locked with Pennywise’s, waiting. Yes, he’d learned a bit about himself from whatever the fuck had just happened, but why him? Why Bill? What did this man – if he could even be called that – want?  
What the fuck was going on in Derry?


	2. you've never failed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just a really short chapter on the 'deepest fear' pennywise showed bill, and it was written in a few hours without being edited or anything, so excuse any spelling or grammatical errors!

The first thing Bill felt after closing his eyes was the odd sensation of everything seeming to fall away around him. He wasn’t sure, even,  _ how _ it could be described, he only knew that all he could pay attention to right at that moment was the cold weight that was Pennywise’s hand laying on his, cold and altogether unwanted.

It felt  _ wrong _ . All of it, and it was over as soon as it came, the cold hand had been moved off of Bill’s, and it felt like he’d fallen back to earth from  _ wherever  _ he was for those few seconds.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, and he wasn’t really sure what he was expecting when he opened them - what  _ do  _ you expect when someone tells you they’re going to  _ show you your literal greatest fear?  _

What he hadn’t expected, however, was to find himself no longer sat at that creepy long table that reminded him eerily of some sort of religious painting of the Last Supper, but instead at his own family’s dinner table.

Something was missing, though. 

In front of him was nothing but a plate of what looked to be some kind of cheap microwavable dinner - the kind that are only really ever sold to elderly people, burnt out university students or work obsessed parents for their neglected children.

Everything around him was eerily quiet, and as he came to terms with the fact that this was  _ actually fucking happening _ , that he had  _ actually  _ been transported home or to some weird alternate dimension or was having a really weird fever dream, he slowly began to properly take in his surroundings.

It was his house, except for the fact that it wasn’t. Everything seemed dusty, uncared for. Pictures that hung proudly on the walls in his reality were on an angle here, and clearly nobody had bothered to adjust them. None of Georgie’s toys were scattered on the floor, and the room seemed entirely devoid of any sort of colour or life.

Something felt wrong, and the twisting feeling from when he’d first walked into Pennywise’s ‘store’ - as he’d called it - returned to his gut.

Bill stood, pushing the chair into the table, and choosing to wander around the house. He wanted more than anything for this to be over, and to be back in that creepy little room, so he and Stan could leave and go home and hopefully never have to see Pennywise ever again, but Bill was all too aware that that probably wouldn’t happen if he chose to just sit and do nothing.

It wasn’t long before he discovered that the rest of the house was as painfully empty and uncared for as the living and dining area. 

The kitchen was clean, to the point where it looked that it hadn’t been used in weeks, except for the microwave, which was emitting the only electric light in the room, and had empty boxes of microwavable dinners piled up by the side of it, presumably that nobody had bothered to take down to the bin. 

It almost felt as though the house was abandoned, Bill thought, as he made his way through the rooms, looking for his parents, or his little brother, or anything that could pass for his  _ deepest fear. _

The twisting feeling in his gut grew stronger as he made his way up the stairs, and his heart began to race. Somehow he knew he was headed for something bad, something that made all of his insides scream at him to  _ leave _ , to  _ get out _ and to turn the fuck back. 

But he couldn’t. Where would he go?

The only way out was to play along. The sooner he did whatever that creepy man wanted from him, the sooner he got through whatever game this was, the sooner it’d all be over.

Bill came to a stop outside Georgie’s bedroom, freezing as he placed his hand on the door, taking a moment to breathe in and gather enough courage to push it all the way open.

He stopped dead in the doorway.

His little brother was nowhere to be seen, but his bed was made (and when the fuck  _ ever  _ had Georgie given in to their parents constant reminders to make it before he ran off to play) and all of his toys were neatly placed in clear plastic tubs or organised on the floor against the wall, well out of the way. Everything looked like it hadn’t been touched in months, maybe even years, and it seemed more like a well preserved display room than anything that was intended to be lived in.

It wasn’t right, and Bill somehow felt as though he was standing on sacred ground, somewhere he  _ really  _ wasn’t meant - or allowed - to be.

So, with that, he stepped back out, not bothering to close the door.

For some reason, Bill felt like the vulnerable kid in a horror movie, walking through an empty, abandoned house, where darkness (and some sort of monster) lurked around every corner.

He’d become even more decided that he really didn’t like this.

What even was the point of this? Who shows up in the middle of fucking  _ Derry _ of all places, with a name like Pennywise (which, by the way, was the most ridiculous name Bill had ever heard, and it sounded like something out of a horror novel from the eighties) and lured two teenage boys into a room to give them a fucking deeper understanding of themselves or whatever the fuck was going on?

It all sounded too fantastic, too  _ pointless _ , and he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something much deeper just below the surface of whoever Pennywise was.

Bill was ripped from his train of thought when he heard someone walking down the hall, and was immediately sent into a state of panic, unable to move as his mother came into full view.

He expected her to acknowledge his presence, as she seemed to be staring straight at him, but the look in her eyes was one he didn’t recognise, one he’d never seen on his mother’s face before. Vacant, empty, lifeless. It was like looking at a dead person walking.

It was then that he realised she wasn’t looking at him, she was looking  _ through  _ him. Right at Georgie’s room.

There was a flash of  _ something  _ in her eyes, but it was gone so quickly that he couldn’t identify what it was, but he was sure as hell it wasn’t something he ever wanted to see on his sweet, loving mother’s face again.

 

With that, she turned sharply, seemingly heading back the way she came, but stopping at Bill’s room, not bothering to knock before she went in.

Hesitantly, Bill stepped closer, hoping to hear what his mother had to say to him (or, at least, this place’s version of him.)

“Bill?” Her voice was muffled through the wall, but even with the barrier there was no mistaking her cold tone. It was one that he barely heard in real life, he’d only ever heard it once, years ago, when he was twelve years old, stuck in bed sick, and had let Georgie out to play all alone.

He hadn’t heard the end of it for hours, because even though his little brother made it back safe and sound, anything could’ve happened to such a young boy.

He pulled himself out of the memory - now was  _ not the time  _ to be thinking about the past, now was the time to be figuring out what was going on.

“Y-y-yeah, m-m-ma?” It was more than a little odd to hear himself speak when he himself hadn’t said anything, and he wasn’t sure if it was just him, or if this version of him had a stutter that was drastically worse than the one he had in his real life.

“Were you messing around in Georgie’s room? The door was open.”

Through the sudden ringing in his ears he vaguely heard himself telling his mother that he hadn’t even left his own bedroom, let alone gone into Georgie’s. It didn’t matter, though, because suddenly Bill had a vague idea of what was going on.

The lack of anything colourful lying around, the way Georgie’s room looked untouched, it was starting to point toward one thing - one thing that Bill didn’t ever want to consider.

So, he pushed that thought down, ignoring the way his heart was thrumming in his ears and tears threatened to prickle at his eyes. He couldn’t draw conclusions, not until he  _ knew  _ for sure what was going on.

“You know you’re not supposed to go in there. You and I both know you’re the reason he’s not here anymore, the least you can do is respect what’s left of him, Billy.” The nickname didn’t sound loving as it rolled off her tongue, it didn’t sound like anything. She just seemed tired, frustrated.

And fuck, he should’ve known. He should’ve known from the minute he saw that bedroom, untouched and preserved as it was.

Of course that was going to be what he saw, of course that would be the worst thing imaginable.

Here, in this world (was this an alternate universe? Bill hoped to high heavens that it wasn’t, he didn’t ever want there to be a world in which he caused the death - inadvertently or otherwise - of his own little brother. He didn’t want there to ever be a world that was so much darker for Georgie not being in it.) his brother was gone, he’d never come home.

The thought alone was enough to bring him to a sob, and a pain unlike any other ripped through his entire body, feeling like it was tearing him apart from the insides.

“N-n-no, t-this  _ isn’t _ r-r-real.” He managed to stutter out a whisper between sobs, needing to ground himself, needing to remember that this was just some fucked up illusion, some strange, magic induced dream that he  _ needed  _ to find a way out of.

He couldn’t be there a minute longer.

He needed to be out of there, needed to walk home, with Stan next to him, making dry, sarcastic commentary on whatever pointless thing was near them, needed to go inside, run up to his little brother’s room and see him alive and well, probably building something out of a lego set way past his bedtime.

Bill didn’t know when he’d closed his eyes, but he felt the world dropping out from around him once more, as the sound of his mother lecturing him faded into the distance, replaced with the growing sound of a laughter, a  _ giggle  _ that grated at his ears, something sickly and dangerous that made him want to peel his own skin off.

_ Fucking Pennywise. _

The laughter was gone as soon as it came, and Bill could once again feel the seat beneath him, the floor under his feet and Pennywise’s hand as it retracted from his.

With a heavy breath, he opened his eyes, moving his gaze immediately away from Pennywise, not wanting to see his face, not wanting to look into those beady eyes.

So he turned his head to the side, looking at Stan, whose eyes were already open, fixed on Pennywise in a stare that Bill could only describe as a mix of terror and confusion.

Hesitantly, needing to feel some sort of comfort, Bill moved his left hand over to grab Stan’s, the warmth a welcome change from Pennywise’s cold one.

Stan’s head turned quickly to face Bill at the unexpected contact, and although Bill still felt like crying, (and God, Stan probably did too - Bill wondered what  _ he’d  _ seen, what horrors were buried deep inside him that he’d been forced to face) he felt safer, knowing he was back in the real world, back from whatever terrible dream he’d been forced into.

The warmth of Stan’s hand grounded him, and in that moment, he wished he’d never have to let go.

Neither of them looked away, just content to find comfort in each other, and right then, it didn’t matter that they were in a place they couldn’t explain without being sent to a mental institution, it didn’t matter that there was a strange, probably very dangerous man sat not three feet away from them, they were safe, and that was all that mattered.

The moment was broken by Pennywise, because of course it was - if it wasn’t the Losers stopping Bill from having a nice moment with the boy he liked, it just  _ had  _ to be some creepy ass bokor motherfucker.

“Enjoy that, boys? Hmmm? Have fun?” 

“You’re sick.” Stan shot back, not missing a beat, and he was back to glaring at Pennywise, but he hadn’t let go of Bill’s hand.

“Don’t be a buzzkill, Stanley. I did give you a choice, after all.” He punctuated the sentence with a high pitched giggle - and Bill had officially decided that was his least favourite sound in the world.

Stan scoffed in response to the man, rolling his eyes. Bill waited a moment, eyes flitting back and forth between Stan and Pennywise, but when he realised Stan intended to ignore the bokor, he spoke up instead.

“W-wh-why are you d-doing this? What d-d-do you g-g-et out of t-t-th-this?” He spat, voice filled with a venom he hadn’t even intended for it to have.

Then, Pennywise lifted his lips into a large grin, teeth showing, eyes hungry in a way that reminded Bill of a predator hunting after its prey, and he regretted asking the question, his temporary confidence melting into a fear - something Stan apparently picked up on, because Bill felt him squeeze his hand a little tighter (he was still afraid, but the fluttering of his stomach was a welcome distraction, if only for a second).

“Because it’s fun.” 

Pennywise’s voice was so high pitched and euphoric, but somehow simultaneously scratchy and like something straight out of a  _ fucking  _ horror movie, and it made Bill want the ground to open up and swallow him whole right there, instead of spending another second in that place.

And God, wasn’t that the sickest of all reasons? The man was tormenting people, answering the questions they couldn’t answer themselves, showing them their deepest fears, doing God only knows what for no reason other than he fucking liked it, he found it amusing, he got off on it.

Bill wanted to fucking leave.

He stood abruptly, (hand still intertwined with Stan’s, who took that as his cue to stand too) glaring at Pennywise, unwavering as he could be with the anxiety currently swimming in his stomach and chest that was threatening to reveal itself.

“T-t-that’s s-sick.” 

He didn’t wait for a response, turning and heading for the door, pulling Stan along behind him.

“Safe home, boys!” The man called out, though it sounded somewhat menacing, and the echoes of his loud, maniacal laughter followed them as they left the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on twitter (@yaelbarons) to talk about these beautiful boys (or to request a stenbrough oneshot, i'm always open to requests)!


	3. and you won't start now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan runs to bill for comfort, but bill ends up being the one needing comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was originally going to be a lot longer, and was going to be the last one, but it didn't feel right to rush the story to finish up here when there's a lot more i need to do with these boys, so i officially have no clue how long this is going to be.  
> i also probably should've mentioned that everyone in this fic is aged up because... there's literally no particular reason they just are

Stan couldn’t get out of there fast enough, trailing after Bill who pulled him along the streets, hand still grasping his firmly, not letting go or slowing his pace until they were well away from where Pennywise’s so called store had been.

Once he was out of there, Stan felt as though he’d woken up from some sort of haze or dream, and the feeling of dread flooded out of his system as though nothing had happened.

Neither of them spoke the whole way home, not willing to be the first to break the silence after what had just happened, and the freezing weather which had been the bane of Stan’s existence a few hours ago was sudddenly the last thing on his mind.

 

The silence that fell over him and Bill as they walked was different, it was almost always comfortable with them, but this time it seemed like the loudest sort of silence, and it was almost unbearable, to the point where Stan was itching to say something, anything, but there was nothing to be said.

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d seen in there, the things he’d heard his _own parents_ say about him, the rotten coppery smell of blood drifting out from the bathroom.

The scariest part was that it was something that _could_ happen. It wasn’t a monster in a faraway place or a ghost in the dark, it was a possible reality, and that thought made Stan’s stomach churn in a way that made him feel nauseous.

 

When they finally came to a stop outside Stan’s house, (and yeah, alright, Bill had probably only walked him home because it was on _his_ way home, but the thought still made Stan feel the tiniest bit better than he had been before) they hung awkwardly outside the door for a moment, facing each other, unsure of what to say.

“You could come in, if you want.” Stan suggested, quietly. Yes, he wanted to spend more time with his unrequited crush (because apparently he just hated himself that much), but mostly, in that moment, he didn’t want to be alone. Didn’t want to go and look his parents in the face, and see them smile at him but hear their voices shouting at him in the back of his head, remembering what he’d been shown.

Didn’t want to pass the _bathroom_ , where he knew in some other universe, he was probably lying dead.

“N-n-not tonight.” Bill said, tone clearly apologetic, eyes sad. “Sorry, I j-just w-want to go h-home. And I I w-want to g-go see G-georgie.”

The second half of that sentence was spoken so quietly that it felt like a guilty admission, and Stan couldn’t resent him for it. He nodded, pulling on a smile so as to let Bill know he was fine with it, and the other boy offered a small and sad half-smile in return, mumbled a quick “goodbye” and turned around to carry on walking home.

Stan ignored the disappointment threatening to rise up, he knew very well Bill probably had his own reasons for wanting to head straight home after _that_ ordeal, but there was always going to be that little voice in the back of his mind to show up and whisper _of course he doesn’t want to stay, you’re not funny like Richie or interesting like Mike or pretty like Bev_.

 

It felt like he was standing outside his own door, trying his best to gather up the courage to walk in for hours, when in reality it was probably barely a minute. He was well aware he was being silly, that his parents would just ask how the movie was and he’d head up to his bedroom to maybe text the other Losers and see if Bill got home safe. But he couldn’t shake what he’d seen in that room, didn’t think he could bear to look at his parents after what he’d heard them say, even if it wasn’t real.

Eventually, the cold began to nip at him again, and he knew he couldn’t stand outside for much longer, and, reminding himself he was being _ridiculous,_ he slid a hand into his coat pockets to fish around for his keys, hand shaking as he turned it in the lock – and was that the cold or his nerves? He wasn’t quite sure, probably a strange mix of both.

 Unsurprisingly, his parents were sat on the couch, his mother watching the television while his father was too engrossed in his book to even acknowledge whatever was happening on screen.

Stan closed the door as quietly as possible, hoping they wouldn’t notice his presence – or at least wouldn’t acknowledge it. All he really wanted to do was head up to his room, yell at Richie and the others for cancelling and go the fuck to sleep, more than ready for this whole night to be over.

Unfortunately, there seemed to be some force out there that hated him that night, and his father’s head snapped up from whatever book he’d been sucked into.

“You’re home early.” He frowned, and Stan sighed, he hadn’t been expected home for hours, probably until the early hours of the morning – his parents had long since given up on trying to get him home at a reasonable time whenever the Losers (particularly Richie) were involved in making plans.

 “Movie ended and we couldn’t really find much of a place to get dinner, plus Eddie’s mom is convinced he’s sick, so...” Stan wasn’t even sure if his father had understood his mumbling, but he took the nod he received in response to mean he had, or at least that he wasn’t fussed enough to ask again.

“What’d you see?” His father resumed reading his book, probably only really asking out of politeness, so Stan responded in kind, and they traded half hearted, unimportant comments about the film for a few minutes, before the conversation fell silent and Stan was able to leave the room to tread up the stairs.

 He tried as best he could to make it to his room without glancing toward the bathroom, but he couldn’t help it, stopping dead in his tracks as he passed. The feeling of horror rose up in his gut once more, remembering in all too vivid detail the smell of blood – his _own_ blood – coming from inside. He remembered the way he could’ve sworn he _felt_ the blood trickling down his wrist as he’d closed his eyes, and all of a sudden he felt _filthy_ , felt like he couldn’t cope, not thinking about himself lying there, probably dead in the tub covered in blood.

 _Fucking Pennywise._ Not for the first time, he found himself wishing he’d just gone home when he realised the others had stood him up.

Stan knew it wasn’t a good idea, but he couldn’t help it, the impulse, the _need_ to take a shower, to clean himself of the memory of what he’d seen, the smell and feel of the blood, had taken him over, and within a few minutes he’d stepped into the shower, scrubbing at his body, mostly at his wrists with soap and water and a washcloth – then a rough sponge, when it felt like washcloth wasn’t doing enough – until his skin was raw and red and all too sore.

It wasn’t enough, he could still smell the blood, he could still _smell_ it and the implications of that, himself, in the tub, he _couldn’t...._

After a few moments, the water turned cold, and Stan just stood there, shaking, cold, _filthy_ and _crying_.

This wasn’t what he’d expected when he’d gone out tonight, and he couldn’t help but resent the other Losers for it. Deep down, though, he knew it wasn’t their fault. It was his own fault, his own fault for being this frightened, this downright traumatised by some hallucination shown to him by a man who had nothing better to do with his time than torture kids _because it’s fun_.

“Stanley?” His mother’s concerned voice cut through his crying, as she knowcked twice at the bathroom door. “You’ve been in there a long time. Are you alright?”

He managed to pull himself together enough to reassure her he was, turning off the shower taps and wrapping himself in a towel.

After pulling on pyjamas and getting himself ready to go to bed, he realised, upon checking the clock, that it’d just gone ten o’clock, he’d been in the shower for almost an hour.

He didn’t even bother to check his phone, leaving it where he’d tossed it (and his keys) haphazardly on his bedside table, and crawling into bed, ready for this day to _fucking end already._

Of course, because the world hated him, he wasn’t even able to fall asleep, too busy tossing and turning and hearing his own parents calling him a _fag_ , the smell of blood, and of course, the lingering memory of seeing those texts from Bill, knowing that not only did his friend not accept him, but outright thought him being gay is horrible, that being with him would be revolting.

With the thoughts swimming around in his head and the memories tightening in his chest he found himself beginning to cry again, what if what he’d been shown wasn’t far off the reality he’d be faced with? What if his parents _did_ think he was a fag, an abomination? What if Bill would hate him forever if he found out the way Stan thought about him? Stan wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it, and the way he’d felt in those few minutes, watching it and knowing all too well it wasn’t real, that would be nothing compared to how he would actually feel if it happened.

A half an hour ticked by, slow as time could possibly seem to go, before he finally gave in. He didn’t _want_ to call Bill, didn’t want to bug the other boy or let Bill see him when he was like this, but he needed to. He needed to see the only person who would calm him, and he couldn’t be alone with his thoughts right then.

So, with a sigh, he blindly reached out to fumble for his cellphone, directing himself to his recent calls and tapping Bill’s name before he could talk himself out of it.

It barely took two rings before he picked up.

“S-Stan?”

“Can I come over?” He barely gave Bill time to finish saying his name before he spoke, and his voice came out in such a hushed whisper he was fairly certain he sounded desperate. “Please?” He tacked on, after a moment of silence.

“Of c-course. Are y-y-you okay?”

Stan didn’t respond, already tossing the covers off his bed and reaching for the lamp switch with his free hand.

“I’ll be on my way after my parents fall asleep.”

Before Bill could so much as think to respond, Stan hung up, moving to grab whatever outfit was closest in his wardrobe – he may have been needing to _get the fuck out of that house_ and go find comfort in Bill, but it was still winter, and it was definitely not warm enough for him to be wandering the streets for twenty minutes in his pyjamas.

After changing, he shoved a pair of pyjamas into his bag, and sat himself back down on his bed until he heard the telltale soundsof his parents’ footsteps down the hall, and the lights being switched off.

He gave it a few more minutes, fiddling with some game he’d downloaded that Richie had reccommended. It was annoying and brightly coloured (of course it was, _Richie_ had suggested it) but Stan had found himself getting hooked, much to his own dismay.

While he sat, waiting, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Bill would think he was stupid for being so bothered, for needing comfort and reassurance after seeing something that, at the end of the day _wasn’t even real_ , but it was too late now, and for the first time, whatever Bill thought of him didn’t matter. Stan couldn’t be alone.

Once there were no more sounds coming from any other rooms in the house, Stan thought it was safe to assume his parents had fallen asleep, so he shot off a quick text to Bill to let him know he was coming, and rolled off his bed.

It took him about five minutes to make his way to the front door without making a sound, but once he was outside, he ran, with only the dim street lights to guide him.

To say Stan felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders the mintue he was on his way to Bill’s was an understatement, and for the first time, the cold winter air seemed refreshing, instead of paralysing.

The twenty-minute walk took him just over ten minutes, and he was honestly surprised he hadn’t been run over crosing the roads, but he wanted to get as far away from his house – and by extension, the thoughts of what had happened earlier – as quickly as possible.

He texted Bill once more upon arriving at his house, not sure if he was allowed to knock on the door, or if Bill’s parents even knew he was coming over.

The door opened slowly only a few moments after Stan had sent the text, Bill stood on the other side, and Stan couldn’t help but appreciate how adorable he looked in that moment, dressed in his pyjamas, face painted with an odd mix of confusion and concern.

“C-cuh-come in. Be kuh-quiet, though, m-my puh-parents are asleep.”

Stan obliged, toeing off his shoes the moment he entered – Bill always insisted he didn’t need to, but he always would anyway – the last thing he wanted was to get dirt and snow and whatever else all over the nicely polished floor, or God forbid the white carpet.

He followed Bill up the stairs and into his bedroom, only sitting down when Bill gestured for him to sit at the foot of his bed, Bill sitting opposite him at the head.

That same heavy silence from before, when they’d been walking home set over them once more, until Bill placed a hand gently on Stan’s knee, (and Stan had never really been too fond of being touched, but this was so soft, so comforting, that he could’ve broken down then and there. Plus, it helped that he’d been in love with Bill since he knew what love _was_ ) and spoke up in a voice that was equally as gentle without being condescending in any way.

“A-are you o-okay?”

At that, Stan couldn’t help but look down at his own crossed legs, unable to look Bill in the eye Because suddnenly, he _did_ feel really fucking silly. There he was, causing Bill to worry, running to his house at eleven o’clock at night, all because he couldn’t handle what was essentialy a glorified hallucination. Go figure.

But, this was Bill, and while there was that quiet voice, the one his therapist would always insist was the depression, piping up in the back of his head saying Bill would think he was being ridiculous too, Stan knew Bill wouldn’t ever think that. He was too good, too kind and non-judgemental. It was part of the reason Stan loved him.

“No.” He said, voice blunt and honest, bringing his head back up so as to look Bill in the eyes.

To his surprise, Bill didn’t push it, didn’t ask what was wrong, just looked at him with this sad sort of look, one that didn’t speak of pity, but of something else entirely. Stan couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it made him feel safe. Safe enough to talk.

It took him a minute to find the words, but once he did, they all tumbled out like some sort of word vomit.

“I can’t stop thinking about what Pennywise showed me. And I know, it’s stupid, to be this freaked about something that isn’t real, and come running here to go to sleep but... I just couldn’t be home. Not on my own.”

Stan considered, for a brief moment, telling Bill what he’d seen, just so he could hear someone tell him he wasn’t a fag or an abomination or all those other things he was so afraid people would think he was, but that thought was chased out of his mind by the knowledge that while Bill didn’t seem the type to be bothered by something like that, you could never be too sure – especially when you’re sat opposite one another on a bed, barely two feet apart.

So, for now, at least, he would settle for the comfort of knowing he wasn’t alone.

‘Th-tha-that’s not sss-stu-stupid. I c-c-can’t stop th-thinking about i-it either. S-s-so I’m g-glad you’re h-here.” Bill paused, “I c-couldn’t sleep e-either.” He admitted, and Stan offered him a small smile, feeling slightly guilty that he hadn’t thought about the fact that maybe Bill was just as badly affected as he was.

This time, the silence was the comfortable one he’d always been used to with Bill, and everything seemed as though it would be alright, at least in that moment.

After a minute or so, Stan allowed himself a little chuckle, there they were, two sixteen-year-old boys, sat a bit too close to each another on a bed, essentially using one another to hide away from their nightmares. It was the sort of thing kids would do.

“I’m gonna go get changed, I’ll be right back.”

With that, Stan grabbed his bag off the floor and slipped into the bathroom (thank God it was only next door to Bill’s bedroom, or else he’d probably have managed to trip and fall down the flight of stairs searching for it in the dark) quickly changing into his pyjamas, stuffing what he’d been wearing in his bag in their place.

When he tiptoed his way back into Bill’s room, his heart leapt into his throat at what he saw. Bill had gotten into bed, pulled the covers up to his neck and was visibly curled underneath the blankets for warmth, looking up at Stan with the prettiest doe-eyes and sweetest smile he’d ever seen. He looked so small, and a hundred times more content than he had only a minute ago.

Bill was, for lack of a better word, _fucking adorable._ It was almost too much for his heart to take.

After a few moments, Stan realised he should probably speak up instead of staring at Bill all night long, not that that wasn’t a pleasant idea.

“So, I can sleep on the floor, if you have any spare blankets?”

At that statement, Bill’s face scrunched up in confusion, and he shook his head. (as best he could with his head resting on the pillow)

“You c-c-can sleep in h-here w-w-with me if y-y-you want. I-it’s big enough.”

And, yeah, okay, _what_? It wasn’t that Stan wanted to sleep on the floor, or that he didn’t want to sleep next to Bill, _in his bed_ , because of fucking course he did, the very idea of it was making his heart race, but weren’t they too old for that?

“U-unless you’re un-un-unc-uncomfortable with it. But w-we used t-to do it a-all the t-t-time.”

They did, but _all the time_ was a long time ago, back when they were eleven years old and sleeping in the same bed as your best friend was normal.

Stan knew it wasn’t a good idea where his own feelings were concerned, but the idea of sharing a bed with the boy he liked and maybe actually being able to fall asleep won over, and he found himself pushing the duvet and blankets out of the way so as to get in, Bill shuffling a little more to the left to make room.

Once they’d both adjusted to find a comfortable position under the duvet and the mass of blankets, facing one another, just close enough that they could feel the other’s body heat without actually touching one another, it didn’t take either boy long to drift off into a peaceful sleep, all thoughts of Pennywise and what they’d seen long gone.

 

Stan was roused from his sleep a few hours later by the feeling of something moving, and he fought to adjust his eyes to the darkness, moving to sit up so he could see what was going on.

Nothing seemed to be out of place, so he turned his head to the side to look at Bill to see if he’d been woken up, but what he saw made his chest tighten and worries flre up.

Bill was sat up on the bed, covers pushed off him, with his arms wrapped around his legs, holding them tightly to his chest like a lifeline as he made some sort of muffled sound into his knees. It only took a moment for Stan to realise he was crying, and he immediately moved a little closer, extending an arm to wrap around Bill’s shoulders, pulling him in closer.

Bill went willingly, now leaning fully against Stan’s side, and removing his arms from around his legs to wrap them around Stan’s waist and cry into his shoulder.

There was no need for three guesses for Stan to know what he was crying about.

He’d said he wasn’t able to stop thinking about what he’d seen, but Stan hadn’t realised just how much he meant it.

He wondered what Bill _had_ seen – it wasn’t any of his business, but he couldn’t help but be curious as to what would shake Bill Denbrough into such a fit. What was _Bill’s_ deepest fear? He’d always been sort of unbreakable to Stan, a pillar of strength, someone there to lead him and the other Losers, someone who was brave in every form of the word. But that wasn’t the reality Stan was faced with then and there, this boy, quaking and sobbing into Stan’s chest wasn’t that idealistic version of Bill, he was real, human, wasn’t perfect, and that meant he could be _hurt_.

Stan hated it. But what he hated more was that there was nothing he could do, he could only hold Bill closer and try to keep him together.

In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hunt Pennywise down himself and throw all of his morals about killing out the window.

The boys stayed like that, holding each other as Bill cried himself out, until Stan felt the other boy still against him and his breathing evened out, a sure indicator that he’d fallen back asleep.


End file.
